un

The patient remained immobile in the bed, lost in a long-forgotten room, hidden behind a wall now sealed with brick and plaster and decades of dirt and lost memories. Ghosts of the past walked the halls, shadows of those who had snaked across the cracked floorboards, their creaks momentarily betraying secrets for a few seconds with each step. The only people who came to the top floor had no good reason for being there. This history greatly amused the man who now held the keys to the secret entrance.

The attic was now accessible only by a rickety narrow staircase, half of the planks missing, behind a locked door covered by a bookcase. Long ago, someone had hidden the stairs from view in a hopeful yet ill-formed attempt to erase the past and what had once occurred in that room. It was best to forget, which was undoubtedly the reasoning behind it: to bury the darkness behind a wall, which would be enough to erase its dark history.

Occasionally, the man, known as M. Reube, would walk the narrow corridor in awe of his discovery. It had come entirely by accident during his research. He had devoured everything he could discover about the French town called Montgenoux and its dark and hidden past and the evil that had festered there for decades. M. Reube only discovered the attic because he was one of the few people not directly involved who had taken the time to read witness statements and testimonials. One in particular caught his attention, referencing a time one victim was held captive by a mad, power-hungry man. The horror of what happened to her aside, the woman made a startling admission about being locked away but could still see the world beneath her feet. So near and yet so far. M. Reube had been intrigued to the point of intoxication. Where was this secret, almost perfect place? It had taken him little time to discover where it was and the pathetic attempt those left behind had made at burying the past.

It had been easy to break into the building because it was under reconstruction. One night, fresh and buoyed after a night of dancing and red wine, M. Reube took his chance and began an exploration which changed everything for him because he knew instantly he had stumbled upon the perfect stage for what he was sure would be his most extraordinary performance.

The entrance to the attic had been almost impossible to find. It was only because it was clear that the narrow corridor that went nowhere SHOULD have gone somewhere that M. Reube thought to tap his knuckles against the wall. His heart soared when he located the hollow sound, and he pressed his fingers around the plasterboard until he found the seal. It took him barely a moment to pull the board away to feel the musty, trapped air whooshing against his face. I’ve found it.

Stepping inside for the first time, the air as black as ink, M. Reube knew he was the first man to tread these particular boards for a long time, and it almost felt like hallowed ground. He treated it carefully and deliberately, stepping as he held his cell phone high above him for illumination. He was not ashamed to admit it, but at that moment, he was overwhelmed, filled with a euphoria he had barely experienced before.

Sitting cross-legged, M. Reube realised he had been staring at the walls for a very long time. Ten perfect dust-lined squares crossed the walls, suggesting frames of some kind had once lived there. Also, less interestingly, there was a rip in the garish floral wallpaper, exposing that the walls had been painted a bright garish yellow at some point as if it had once been a children’s playroom or something similar. It had faded now, leaving only a dirty contrast.

A finger trail led from one of the frames to another, suggesting to the man that whoever had been in those pictures had been of particular interest to the man who had once inhabited the space. M. Reube liked to imagine ten perfectly happy, smiling faces beaming at him from where they had once

been immortalised. He also imagined they were women, or rather particularly young women, because, as he understood it, that was the previous owner’s desire, certainly not his. Sex was an uninteresting base instinct which held little interest for him. All he was really concerned with was power and control, and that had nothing to do with sex as far as he was concerned.

M. Reube could not help but wonder if the pictures were posed or carefree shots. He imagined the women running across a sandy beach, delicate ankles dipping in and out of an icy ocean. They would giggle at the absurdity of it all but then do it again for the camera. He rather hoped it was something else. Were they the snapshots posted in police stations up and down France? Hastily gathered photographic evidence, looking for the best and most precise likeness of their missing loved one: daughter, sister, or wife. These families had no doubt spent agonising hours in silent rooms pouring over photo albums, choosing not their favourite but the one someone told them would look better stuck to a lamppost. She looks good here; you can see everything so clearly, they would say, and that would be that, immortalised in a glossy 4x6 they hoped would spark enough interest and herald their return.

M. Reube smiled. If it were him, he would place the same pictures of his prey and gesture to his prisoner and say: can you imagine such a thing? Everywhere up and down the land, people look at that photograph and say to themselves: whatever happened to her? And then there you are, right here, right now! M. Reube imagined they would laugh together at the absurdity of the predicament because they both knew the truth: there was no going back, not once you were in the forgotten room.

Clicking his tongue irritably at allowing himself the luxury of indulgence, M. Reube turned his head sharply to the reason his desire had led him to this place of mystery. The patient had not opened his eyes in a long time. His captor hoped his dreams were vivid and that they terrified him. A breathing tube, secured by tape, pushed against full lips. The chest rose and fell in a succession of gusts of air, which caused the curls on the patient’s forehead to flicker like feathers caught in a breeze. The patient’s eyes were also taped down and twitched involuntarily occasionally. A pair of halogen lamps cast a yellow hue over the bed, and a small generator chugged along next to them, keeping the patient alive. For now, at least, because his captor had plans for him. Afterwards, whatever happened did not matter a damn to him. He was only valuable up to a point, and then he was expendable.

From his vantage point in the room’s corner, the man sat rigid, hands folded into his lap, his chin lifted, and his head tilted toward the bed. He supposed the room had been something else at some point. The bed was old, probably forty or more years, but it was sturdy and made of metal, with cast iron legs and wheels secured to the ground.

When he had first discovered the room, a chair dead-centre dominated it, ropes still hanging from a beam in the ceiling, a naked bulb splattered with something the colour of rust, long since hardened, he had found the bed in a corner, hidden under a yellow stained sheet. He had ripped it off, audibly gasping at what lay underneath. The bed, he assumed, though he had no proof, appeared to have originated in a hospital, and he had to wonder how on earth it had ended up where it had. The thought delighted him, and he had spent many auspicious nights lying awake ruminating on it, conjuring up wilder and more outlandish scenarios with each sleepless dark hour that passed.

The discovery of the room happened by pure chance. During the review of a witness statement, the man stumbled upon it. The small window, which a woman had once looked down from onto the cobbled town square beneath, signposted the exact location. He had spent days in a Café entertained by its flamboyant owner, a red-haired, voluptuous woman whose capacity for gossip suited his purpose well. She had filled in the blanks for him and then some, painting a lush portrait that filled in the missing pieces all he had devoured from afar could not. A person’s life laid bare on scraps of paper on a flickering screen was not nearly as divine as words from the mouths of those whose paths they had crossed.

The man took in his surroundings once again with an uncanny and unusual pride. The room was cordoned off like a crime scene. He had arranged it so for no other reason than it amused him. It reminded him of... it reminded him of a past he had relegated to the part of his mind where he would retrieve it only when he had the urge to watch it as if he was watching an old black and white television in a dingy attic where the only light came from a small, filthy skylight long since frozen locked.

The floor was dirty and lined with carefully arranged clear plastic police evidence bags, which he had filled with a selection of things; cigarette butts, balled-up tissues and various swabs he had taken from the patient. He knew there was no need for such diligence, but he had waited so long and practised so hard for what was now the endgame that he had no intention of spoiling what had been his dream for decades. A stray piece of nothing which could prove to be something would not ruin it should it fall into the wrong hands.

At night, he often roamed the corridors. He knew he had to be careful; each creak could lead to his potential downfall, but he had weighed his options carefully, and the intoxication of what he was doing versus the risk of someone hearing him was worth the risk.

And now the culmination of his plan was upon him, and he stood at the precipice. He stood, a smile creasing a smooth, line-free face, and he hurried to the small window, pulling himself up, his fingers wrapping around the splitting window ledge. Even on his toes, he could not quite see over the top, but in the end, he did not need to. The sound was enough. Squealing sirens and raised voices bordering on hysteria as the gravity of the unfolding drama began to become apparent to everyone around. It was all he could have hoped for and so much more. He glanced quickly around the room. He needed to see what came next because replicating it would be impossible. A moment of triumph that needed to be savoured.

In the corner, he spotted an old wooden box, half broken, its contents spilling onto the ground. He hurried towards it, dragging it across the floor, not caring about dealing with the mess at that moment. He slammed the box against the wall and clambered on it, steadying himself on the wall. With all his might, he threw himself upwards, pressing his chin against the sill.

‘I’ve waited a long time for your downfall, Hugo Duchamp,’ the man exhaled as if the words gave him immense pleasure, ‘and I am going to savour every moment of it.’